


that's where the fish are

by natlet



Series: please do not let me go [3]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-06-04 09:43:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6652846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natlet/pseuds/natlet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>By the third day, John is expecting both the news and the black mood that comes in with Flint from the Walrus - they still can't leave.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> again we're following directly on from [the last part](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6596650) (....we might be going chaptered instead with the next part, 15 years in fandom and i have no idea how this works, i am so sorry about me)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there is some fairly mild, almost entirely un-negotiated, completely consensual kink in here

The storm arrives the next morning. It blows in from the south, looms up swift and black on the horizon, drives the Walrus men set to continue repairing the barricades on the beach back up to the village barely an hour after they'd started; John had intended to begin transferring the guns back onto the fleet, but they almost lose a nine-pounder off the side of the first launch, and he puts a stop to it. They won't get anything meaningful done until the bay quiets, at least not without risking more than he's willing to, in goods and men alike. Flint isn't happy about it, but he seems to understand; at least, he understands enough that he doesn't try to challenge John over it, which will do. John issues the men an extra quarter ration of rum to keep them busy, and retreats to the relative shelter of his tent. 

By the third day, John is expecting both the news and the black mood that comes in with Flint from the Walrus - they still can't leave. The storm is blowing in just the wrong direction to keep them in the bay - even John can see they'll smash back into the fucking island before they so much as clear the shoals, and the rain drives hard enough most of the crew isn't bothering to leave the shelter of the village any more. Heading to sea would be a hard sell to the men, even if John were inclined to make it - which he isn't, and not because he's trying to avoid the war, no matter what Flint might say. 

It could be argued, however, that he's trying to avoid the sea - or at least, Flint going to sea. 

He's not sure yet, if it's the village or the island, being on land, or maybe just being as far from Nassau as possible - but whatever it is, whatever the key element is that had changed between them, that had brought them together, let him kiss Flint, brought him to Flint's cabin - whatever it is, he doesn't want to risk changing it. Not yet. 

Not before it happens again. 

Flint, obviously, feels differently - about the going to sea part, at least. John's not sure about the rest of it, but Flint is clearly infuriated by his current landlocked state; he stomps up the dock from the river, snaps at Rackham, glares daggers at the mud on his boots when he thinks nobody's looking. John almost wants to laugh at him - is sorely tempted to laugh at him, even though he's half sure Flint would probably try to kill him for it. He holds himself to a smile as Flint slogs his way up to the cooking hut, where John's leaned up against the railing on the blissfully dry covered porch; "Your boots wet?" he calls, when Flint's close enough to hear, and Flint gives him that look that means he's thinking about strangling him. 

"All of the places I've shown you," Flint says, shaking himself like a dog once he's under the roof - once he's close enough to get John wet with it, John can't help but notice, which is probably his point. "All of the - the perfect idyllic beaches, the quiet coves - paradise, Mister Silver. All of the islands in the fucking sea, this is the only place I've ever been where it storms like this. And these are the allies you choose." 

"I would perhaps argue that they chose us," John says, "and also that we maybe didn't have much choice in the matter, given that we were starving to death and also temporarily prisoners." Flint shoots him a glare, and John responds by widening his smile; Flint's irritation is just play, it's not genuine, he knows the man well enough by now to understand that - for all his purported mystery Flint's like a fucking book sometimes, and John's willing to admit he's possibly made a quicker study of it than most, but. "Besides, I doubt this is the _only_ island where it storms like this. They're certainly getting it on the next one over, at the very least." 

Flint's lips press together into a thin hard line, and he looks away - honestly, it only makes John smile wider. "I need to talk to you," Flint says. "Not here." 

"Well, I'm not shipping out to the fucking Walrus in this - " 

"At the camp," Flint says, and - oh, John thinks. 

"The sort of talk you don't want the men to be around for," he says; Flint gives him another look, which isn't quite an answer, but it's enough of one. It is, indeed, going to be that sort of talk.

He's been - expecting it, sort of; they haven't addressed any of it, the night in John's tent, Flint's head on John's shoulder, his breath hot and wet against John's throat, nor what had happened the next night on the ship, in Flint's cabin - he'd thought they'd get to it once they'd set sail, once Flint was back in his element, centered again, but then the storm had rolled in and they haven't talked about any of it - and perhaps John hadn't planned on finding himself in a place where not discussing something with Flint in confidence was the anomaly rather than the rule, but here he is. 

"Finish your business here," Flint says. "Make sure you won't be missed." 

"And you'll be in your tent?" John says, and Flint rolls his eyes, whirls around to stomp back down the steps into the rain.

He looks back, though, just once, before he disappears onto the path that leads from the village to their camp down the hill; John knows it's too far to see anything, especially in the rain, but for a second he can almost feel Flint's eyes on him. 

He gives Flint a few minutes' head start, then goes after him. 

By now, the path is worn enough to be familiar, but not enough to stop it from being occasionally treacherous, especially in the rain; everything's turned to mud, slippery and unstable, and when he'd come up from the camp this morning John had thought maybe it would be best to stay in the village until things started to dry out again - but. Flint's tent is set just slightly apart from the rest, closest to the village; he's got his own thatched roof and everything, which as far as John's considered is a fucking waste, since Flint has spent maybe four nights under it in total. He's glad for it now, though, once he makes his way up the two shallow steps onto the platform, ducks through the flap - his own tent is far from watertight, and he's quite sick of being leaked on. 

It's warm inside - or, rather, once he's out of the rain, he notices the chill - Flint has a lamp lit, and the roof holds the heat much better than the canvas John is used to, and his coat, now that he's thinking about it, is very fucking wet. "Okay," he says, "okay, you were right, perhaps we chose poorly. There must have been some other island the fates could have set us drifting aimlessly towards, why did we choose this one?" 

"Explains the Doldrums," Flint says; he comes over to help John with the coat, supporting its weight as he peels it off his shoulders, folds it dripping over one of the cross-beams bracing a wall. "All the wind's picked up and come here instead." 

"Don't suppose you've got another coat in here," John says; his shirt is mostly dry but he's shivering anyway, shoulders drawn up tight around his neck, and Flint steps close, hands on John's biceps, rubbing gentle and brisk - it's not going to help, but John appreciates the gesture, at least. 

"I'm sorry," Flint says, "I don't think there's anything left dry on the whole fucking island," and John can't help a smile - he sounds like he actually does regret it. 

"We'll have to find a better one next time," John says, and Flint laughs, short and soft - the kiss he presses against John's mouth is soft, too, but it's anything but short. 

"Hello," John whispers, when he gets the chance. 

"Hello." Flint kisses him again - shorter, no less sweet. 

"I thought you wanted to talk?" 

"Wanted to do that, first," Flint says, his eyes on John's mouth, just for a moment before he lets him go. He's got a smallish table holding the lamp and his logs along one side of the tent, two chairs tucked beneath it; he pulls one out, seats himself in the other, waits for John to join him. "Word about Hornigold will be reaching Nassau soon, if it hasn't already," he says, when John's settled. "I'm assuming that no news from Billy is good news, and coming so soon after Vane, if we position ourselves right - " 

"We could have a fresh crew in an afternoon," John says.

"With a little luck we can man a fleet in a week." Flint pulls out one of his logs from halfway down the stack, flips a few pages. "Teach promised another two gunboats when he returns from Ocracoke. We'll need to take a prize or two, but I think we'll manage." 

"I should hope so," John says; "Between the Walrus, and the Revenge - " 

"Rackham will have a command as well, I should think," Flint says. 

"Teach agreed to give him one?" 

"Don't think anyone's asked Teach yet," Flint says, and John smiles. "I'm not sure we'll be able to convince him to give up the one Miss Bonny took, but I can't imagine her agreeing to stay behind, not after a performance like that." 

"She'd capture it right out from under him before she let anyone go to sea without her," John says. "With three, though - "

"We should be able to take most anything that catches our eye." Flint's grin is feral, dangerous, and John can't help smiling back at him, can't help the heat that surges low in his belly - he's not sure if it's for the prospect of new prizes or for something else entirely, he's not sure he cares - he's no longer entirely sure there's a difference. "We'll need to split the men. I'm not comfortable leaving the village undefended, and the queen's forces may have performed impressively on the beach, but I'm still concerned about how some of them will do at sea. I'd like to leave behind two of Teach's ships and as many of our men as we can spare, see if we can't turn them into a proper crew by the time we bring them a ship to sail. If all goes well, we'll need the berth space on our return trip anyway." He pauses, turns another page in his log. "I'll need you to stay with them."

"No," John says.

Flint's gaze snaps up to meet his, dark and surprised - John doesn't give a fuck. Let him be angry. "The queen trusts you more than any of us," Flint says, "and even if the island escapes retaliation while we're gone, the men are going to need - " 

"No," John says again, stronger, and Flint shuts up. "Absolutely not. You're going out to muster support, gather intelligence, drum up new allies? Let's say you're right, and everything goes your way, and you come back with a new crew. A new goddamned fleet, I don't care. New soldiers for this war of yours. How do you think that plays out? For me? For the men you've left behind?" Flint is silent, one hand curling over his mouth; John takes a breath, forces himself to let it out slowly. "It gets you half an army that accepts me as quartermaster, as a player in this game, and half an army that does not. That never will." 

Flint meets his gaze again, but otherwise doesn't respond, and John doesn't - know, he can't tell for sure if this had been Flint's plan or not, if any of this is news to Flint or if it had been his point all along. If it's a challenge to his authority, it isn't a very solid one - but the fact remains that it could be, that cold little corner of doubt curling in John's throat. It's unsettling - and he hates that, he fucking _hates_ that, because it's never seemed this strange before, but. 

"If you want - if there's some reason you don't want me along," he says - and he wants Flint to deny it, wants Flint to fill in the spaces where his understanding is so clearly lacking, wants Flint to tell him it's not that, there's some perfectly practical reasoning behind his request - he doesn't, though, just waits, one eyebrow slightly arched, and John doesn't let himself sigh. "If you're - regretting this, or having second thoughts, or - I don't know. I'll stay away from you. But I'm not staying on this island. Not this time. Let someone else train the men. I sail with you, or I won't sail with this crew again."

"That's not what I mean," Flint says, and for a second all John can do is blink at him. 

"Then why in the fuck are you trying to set off without me?" 

"Because I want you with me too badly," Flint says - his voice is sharp and strained, choked, like it's cost him something to say, and - oh, John thinks, a bit dumbly. "I - ten years we've been fighting for this, if I throw it away, if I have a even a momentary lapse in judgement, if I for one second value your safety above the success of this fleet - " 

"You don't have to fucking protect me," John says, and perhaps it comes out angrier than he means it, but. "I've never been a goddamn liability before, why the fuck would I be one now? I can't even board a fucking prize, there's not exactly much to worry about." 

"You know how hard I've fought for this, the sacrifices I've had to make to bring this war about - " 

"Yes, and I'd appreciate it if you'd keep in mind you're not the only fucking one who's made any," John snaps - and he should feel bad about it, part of him thinks he should feel bad about it, for striking that particular blow, but - the rain is making his leg ache with no regard to how there isn't a leg even there to ache any more, and he doesn't feel all that bad about it, honestly. He takes a deep breath, forces himself to let it out slow and steady and even. "I know this is important to you, and I promise - I swear to you, Captain, I will do everything in my power to ensure its success. Whatever we are now, I understand it can't get in the way. I don't expect it to. But you cannot jeopardize my standing with the men. I won't let you." 

Flint is quiet for what feels like a very long time, eyes on his books; John waits him out, though, and eventually Flint sighs. "I'm sorry," he says, and his voice is bare and much smaller than John likes. "That - wasn't at all my intention. Of course you'll sail with us." 

The victory is heady - and John's almost come to expect this by now, the rush of it, the humming roar in his skull that comes when the dust settles and he's come out on top - but it's blunted, somehow, the enjoyable parts of it not quite as enjoyable as they usually are, as they should be, and John moves without thinking, reaches out to lay a hand on top of Flint's where it rests on the ink-covered page of the log. "Right," he says, as gently as he can manage. "Somehow, I don't think that's the way you wanted that talk to go."

"Not exactly." Flint's face is tight, still; he won't look up just yet, but John keeps his gaze on Flint's eyes anyway. He rubs his thumb across the back of Flint's hand, fingers curling around Flint's wrist when Flint turns his palm upward into the touch. 

"Should we try again?" he says, and Flint huffs out a quiet breath - not quite a laugh, but almost. 

"I don't want to challenge your position with the men," he says; "They need you, and I - it hasn't escaped my notice, how well they've worked together lately. With you to look to, they're - stronger. More committed. They function as more of a unit. It's what we need from them right now." His eyes are softer when he finally looks up from the log. "You're right. Someone else can handle things here. I'm sorry." 

"It's okay," John says, quiet; then, firmer, forcing a little bit of cheer into it, "It isn't like we're going anywhere today, in any case." 

"We need to be underway by dark tomorrow if we're to keep our advantage," Flint says. "Weather be damned. We'll push ourselves off from the fucking shoals if we have to." 

"Perhaps we should save worrying about tomorrow for tomorrow," John says, and one corner of Flint's mouth - finally, fucking finally - quirks upward into the beginnings of a smile. 

"You say that like you've got a better idea for this useless day," Flint says, and it's - not, it's just conversation, he isn't implying anything, John doesn't think he's even trying to - but something stirs deep and hot in his belly anyway. 

He shouldn't like it, the power this has over him already - he's too hungry for it, too willing to follow Flint where he leads, even when he doesn't even seem to be leading them anywhere. It should seem frightening, or unsettling, or strange; it should remind him that though perhaps the gold and the easy life he'd thought he'd gain from temporarily aligning himself with Flint was no longer a possibility, though perhaps he'd found in his position and the loyalty it earned from the men a new sort of reward - though perhaps the end game had changed, the fleeting nature of his alliances shouldn't have had to. He shouldn't like that instead of heightening his caution toward Flint, instead of revealing areas where perhaps he might gain an advantage over the captain, their new closeness has only made him want more, made him want to dig deeper, see what else might lie along this path they've found, and not because he wants to gain an advantage - but simply because he _wants_. 

He shouldn't like it. And yet. 

"Well, to be honest," he says - slowly enough he can enjoy how Flint looks at him, close and curious, one eyebrow climbing upward toward his hairline - "At the moment, I am a bit concerned that you've made me come all the way down here, risking life and limb in that mud, just to talk about your war." 

"I kissed you first," Flint says, defensive, and John laughs. 

"Point taken." Flint's gaze drops, and John follows it down to where their hands rest on the table, rubs his thumb across the tendons in Flint's wrist, and he's not sure he should - he's not sure he's allowed; he might have started this, but at every point Flint has continued it, given him permission to continue, shown him he could - but he takes a breath and says, soft, "Perhaps you could - make it up to me." 

Even as he hears himself say it he's amazed - it's brazen, the aggression in it, the idea that Flint would be interested in making anything up to him, the thought that there's even a score to be settled in the first place - Flint won't stand for it, he knows that. It's one thing for John to question his handling of the crew, his plans for the ship. It's expected of him, it's his duty. He has a feeling, though, that pushing Flint here - over whatever this is they're doing, whatever they are now, whatever they're becoming - might prove to be another matter entirely. He's expecting the dark flash across Flint's face, the way Flint's fingers clench tight and sharp and reflexive around his wrist; he keeps his eyes on Flint, wills himself calm and steady, braces for the response he knows is coming. 

It doesn't come. 

Instead, Flint says - quiet, so fucking quiet, his voice barely more than a whisper - "What did you have in mind?" 

Oh, John thinks. He'd been expecting Flint to sound angry; he'd expected the chill that would come over his voice, the tensed muscle high in his cheek, a steely set to his eyes. He hadn't planned on Flint sounding - agreeable. Eager, even. He doesn't - know what to do with that. 

Except perhaps he does.

His tongue darts out to wet his lips, unconscious. "Come here," he says, and Flint rises - keeps hold of John's hand as he comes around the small table, sinks into a crouch in front of him. John brings his other hand up to cup Flint's face, thumb smoothing over his beard, enjoying the slow flutter in his stomach as Flint turns into the touch, lips against John's palm. He lets his hand slip down and back to curl around Flint's neck, tugs gently; Flint shifts forward, his free hand coming up to rest on John's thigh, and John leans in to kiss him, wet and fast and hard, his tongue pressing into Flint's mouth, teeth in Flint's lower lip as he pulls away. 

"Tell me to stop, and I will," John says, softly, and Flint's gaze snaps up to meet his. He doesn't answer, but he doesn't need to. 

His breaths are coming quicker now, sharper; he leans forward, just a bit, and John catches his mouth, lets Flint draw him into another kiss that breaks only because he has to, before the twinge in his neck develops into a full-blown ache. "Come here," he says again, using their still-joined hands to pull Flint closer, and Flint does, shifts until his shoulders are nudged up between John's knees - and Christ, John doesn't think he's ever going to get used to that, Captain Flint doing as he's told, but. "I want," he says, and stops; Flint is quiet in front of him, and John tightens his hand on the back of Flint's head, just to feel him lean into it. He isn't sure what to say - and it's becoming a more familiar sensation, recently, but this is different - he's caught not by a lack of words but an overabundance, thoughts crowding to the front of his mind too quickly for him to sort through them. He wants Flint's hands on him again, his body pressed hot and close, he wants Flint's mouth on his neck, his hips against John's own, he wants - he just _wants_ , and badly enough that in comparison nothing else seems to matter. Flint's hand in his isn't enough. John doesn't know what would be enough, if there's even such a thing as enough - it seems ridiculous, the idea that a chasm like the one Flint's opened up inside him could ever be filled, and he knows the prospect, the idea of it even existing should bother him, should fucking terrify him - but. 

His thumb rubs through the short hairs at the back of Flint's head, over the gentle curve at the base of his neck; Flint's eyes slip closed, and John takes a breath and says, "I want you to suck me." 

It's a risk; even as he's saying it he knows it's a risk, but there's always a chance it'll be one worth taking - he's rarely wrong, and even more rarely wrong about Flint, but still there's a breath or two where he thinks perhaps - but Flint sighs, harsh and ragged, sags back against John's hand. 

"Yes," he breathes, "God, yes," and his hands are already roaming upward, toward the waist of John's breeches. He's half-hard already - and Christ, they haven't even done anything yet, Flint's barely touched him and he's responding and that should bother him too, he knows it should, but - it doesn't seem important, none of it seems as important as Flint's hand on his thigh, Flint's breath chilling wet fabric stretched tight across heated flesh. Flint presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss to his knee, just above the edge of the boot, moves upward; his fingers are working the buttons of John's breeches, sliding them open one by one, and John arches, lifts off the chair to let him pull them down enough. Flint lets go another rough breath as John's cock springs free - it's matched by John's low whine, a sharp needy sound torn from his chest that he's not sure he's ever made before, that he'd probably find embarrassing under any other circumstances, but. 

"Please," he says, "Captain, please," and Flint murmurs something low and unintelligible against his hip - and John's about to push, about to ask him to repeat himself, but then Flint's mouth is on him and he doesn't care what Flint had said - he doesn't care about anything other than this, he doesn't think he ever has, fuck, _fuck_ \- "Oh," he's gasping, "oh, _oh,_ " and Flint's mouth is wet and tight and impossibly hot around him, his hand clenched on John's thigh as he swallows him down, and John's fingers tighten on the back of Flint's neck. "God," he chokes out, " _please,_ " and he feels Flint's mouth curl into a smile around him. 

Flint - and fuck, it feels wrong to even think, but - Flint sucks cock like he'd been born for it, effortless and perfect, lips sliding down along John's length until he's arching up out of the chair, free hand crammed into his mouth in a fruitless attempt to keep himself quiet. Flint's hand is on his hip, but he doesn't stop John from moving - lets him, instead, swallowing as John thrusts upward into his mouth, and John moans, forces himself to keep it soft as Flint pulls back, his tongue slipping up the underside of John's cock, across the slit at the tip. "Fuck," he gasps, and Flint makes a quiet noise - not quite a moan, but enough, enough that John feels it, and his hands are scrabbling across Flint's head - they're going to have to talk about that haircut, _Jesus_. Flint settles easily into the rhythm John likes - taking him down as far as he can, back until his lips spread around the head, fast and slow, hard and soft all at once, and he's not sure when Flint figured that out, they certainly haven't talked about it, but - and it's not long before he's struggling, one hand on Flint's shoulder and the other clenched tight around the seat of the chair, keeping himself in place, forcing himself to not push farther into Flint's mouth. 

Stop, he starts to say, but he reconsiders; he doesn't want Flint to _stop_ , not really, doesn't want the total withdrawal that seems to follow close behind the word, he just wants to - "Wait," he says instead, "wait, I'm - God, fuck, I'm close, I'm - " but Flint doesn't seem to care - Flint hums around him, low and pleased, and before he can stop himself John's coming in sharp spurts down his throat, muscles tight and singing, cries muffled in his own hand as Flint swallows around him. 

"Fuck," he says, when he can manage words again, and on the floor Flint laughs quietly. "Don't know what you think is so damn funny." 

"John Silver, teller of tales," Flint says, against his good knee, "reduced to single syllables by getting his cock sucked." 

"Shut up," John says, but between the softness it comes out with and the way he can't seem to stop petting Flint, he doubts Flint will take offense. He lets his hand curve around Flint's head, thumb rubbing through his short hair as Flint sighs, leans a little more heavily against John's leg; he's starting to shiver, his skin damp and cooling under John's hand, and John frowns. "God, I'm sorry, you must be freezing down there." 

"'m fine," Flint says, low and sleepy and half-muffled against John's leg - but there's something different there now, some new note in his voice, something far away and slipping, and John feels his frown deepen. 

"You're shaking. Come here." Flint mumbles something else, some denial or protest, but John has just decided he isn't going to listen until Flint starts making understandable words again - something's off, something's wrong, and the sense that he needs to figure out what the fuck it is and fix it outweighs, at the moment, most everything else. He drags at Flint's shoulders, pulling him up to his knees - it isn't enough, though - he has to move, some deeply ingrained, unexamined sense telling him he needs to get Flint close, and quickly, and he can't get him close enough like this - 

"Up," he says, "come on," and Flint stands with him - and he's not, he's not fucking thinking about what he might have done if Flint hadn't, he doesn't know if he'd be able to get enough leverage to get him up. His coat hangs wet and heavy from his shoulders, cold under John's hands, and John strips it off him - and fuck, he thinks, Flint had come in from the ship, all the way across the bay and up the river in this, he's soaked through - he runs his hands down Flint's chest, reaching down to curl his fingers in the hem of Flint's shirt, peels it away from his skin without asking. 

Flint still hasn't said anything, hasn't tried to stop him and he won't look John in the eye and honestly, John thinks, this is getting a little - he moves when John pulls again at his shoulders, quiet and complacent, lets John nudge him over toward the cot on the other wall of the tent. "Hold on," John says, forces himself to keep his voice soft and calm even though his head's screaming - _where is he, where is he, where the fuck did he go_ , and he wants to take the boot off, the leather is swelling from the rain but he's not sure he should let go of Flint long enough to do even that - he snatches the heavy woolen blanket that's folded near the foot of the cot, wraps it around Flint's shoulders. "Lie down," he says, and Flint obeys, wordless. John sits next to him - and he has to, his knee fucking aches and he needs two hands to tug the boot free, he works as quickly as he can but he has to take his hands off Flint for a moment - by the time he reaches back Flint is shaking again, still, the tension that had seemed only skin-deep a few seconds ago settled into his muscles, his whole body strung tight under John's hands and John can't think, doesn't think - 

"Come here," he says, stretching out next to Flint - the cot's too small for two and it creaks under their weight but John doesn't care, he doesn't care about anything except getting back to him - "I'm sorry, it's all right, come here - " He gets one arm under Flint's head, hooks his knee over Flint's thighs, drags him in - he softens under John's hands, though not much, and he strokes Flint's arm through the blanket, shoulder to elbow and back, firm and even and steady as he can. "Easy," he whispers, "easy, you're all right, stay with me. Please stay with me." Flint lets out a low shaking sound and pushes closer, and John curls around him, presses a kiss to Flint's hair as he nuzzles into John's neck, holds on as best he can. 

Eventually Flint calms, his quick sharp breaths against John's throat going slow and even, the tremors that wrack his body easing away under John's hands. John isn't sure how much time has passed, how long he's been murmuring soft and steady in Flint's ear - it can't have been long; long enough for his mouth to go dry, but not long enough for the lamp to burn itself out. Flint is heavy and close and finally starting to feel warm again in his arms, and John shifts, just a bit, just enough to tuck the blanket a little tighter around Flint's shoulders. 

"Shit," Flint says, as John settles back - it's the first real word he's managed in a while now, and his voice is rough and thick. John doesn't comment on it. "I'm sorry." 

"You don't have to be sorry." John presses a slow kiss to Flint's cheek, just next to his ear. "You don't have anything to be sorry for. Not here."

Flint laughs, short and humorless, but he stays close; "You should go," he says, but he doesn't sound like he means it, so John thinks it's probably safe to ignore that, for now.

"See, I'm not convinced that I should," he says instead, and Flint huffs out another breath against his throat. "I don't - know what that was, but I'm going to be honest with you, I'm a little worried. I'm not sure leaving you alone would be the best idea right now." 

"I'm fine," Flint says, but it doesn't sound like he really means that either; John waits, just in case, gives Flint the chance to argue the case, make him believe it - they both know it isn't a question of whether or not he can. 

"Talk to me," he says, when Flint doesn't try to pull away, doesn't try to push it further; he moves back just enough to kiss Flint's forehead, breathing soft and steady into his hair. "What's going on in there?" 

Flint's got a hand free of the blanket, trapped between their bodies; John can feel Flint's fingers clenching and unclenching mindlessly in his shirt. "I don't know," he says, after a while; it feels like ages have passed, but it can't have been more than a few breaths. His voice is low and raw and it pulls at something in John's chest - and Jesus, he thinks, he'd let Flint climb inside his damned skin if it would get him closer, if it could help to patch that wound. "I - I can't. I'm sorry." 

It's too much, somehow - too fast, too intimate, too - something. John's not sure exactly what. This is the part he's still figuring out, when to push Flint versus when Flint needs him to back off, how to tell the difference; when the reasons matter, and when they don't. It's easier with Flint under his hands than it had been otherwise, but - it bothers him, the reminder that in some areas, in some ways, his understanding is still lacking. "It's all right," he says, and Flint relaxes almost imperceptibly in his arms. For a moment, it's quiet; Flint is breathing soft and steady into the hollow of John's throat, his short hair prickling under John's cheek. He's warm enough John almost doesn't notice the chill in the air at his back, along his side, everywhere they're not touching. "If you really want me to go," he says eventually, "I will." 

Flint hesitates, but his fingers are twisted tight in John's shirt, and John knows what the answer will be before it comes, whispered so low he might have missed it if he hadn't been expecting it - "Not just yet."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as far as i can tell before teach had the _queen anne's revenge_ he captained another ship also called _revenge_ and i mean i get it, teach, but.... one-track mind, bro, come on, you're making this kinda confusing here
> 
> title is from [across a great wilderness without you](https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/across-great-wilderness-without-you) by keetje kuipers which i have used before and lbr will probably be using again


	2. block city

The wind whips in sharp swirls and eddies around him, flapping his coat open, pulling long strands of hair free from their tie, but John holds his position at the rail anyway; the ground has been steady beneath his feet for entirely too long, and perhaps at the time he'd meant it, when he'd told Flint once he didn't much care for the sea, but. Perhaps his feelings toward it have changed, since then. 

Perhaps they're not the only things that have changed. 

Around him, the men are swarming up into the rigging; now that they're clear of the island, Flint will want a full compliment of sails set, and the sooner they accomplish that the easier everyone's day will be. John leans against the rail, and watches as they ascend. He'd really never spent that much time aloft, and by now his desire to join them has settled from an irrational all-consuming ache to a momentary pang; he knows his duties on deck are just as important, just as vital to the ship's operation as the men who loosen the ropes and unfurl the sails, but he can't help the briefest wish that he could join them, climb high above the Walrus' decks, ride the sway of the masts once more. 

"You want to be up there," Flint says, close over his shoulder, like some fucking apparition summoned by his inner thoughts; John lets his fingers clench tight around the rail, hard enough his knuckles go white, but forces himself not to react otherwise. 

"I miss the feel of it, sometimes," John says, and he doesn't mean to - it's the sort of thing he doesn't like admitting even to himself, the limitations he's subject to now - but if there's any safe harbor at all for thoughts such as those, well. "The wind. How the sea speaks through the ship." 

"Nothing quite like it," Flint says. He's close, but not too close; John can feel the warmth coming off him, the break in the wind around his body, but he still has to lean a bit to make out Flint's words over the sounds of the ship and the water. "There's times you can feel it through the wheel. Mostly when she's angry. The masts are much better conversationalists." 

John glances at him; he's stood with both hands behind his back, shoulders set in a firm line. "If you're telling me you've been up there chatting with your fucking warship, I might - " _have you committed,_ he stops himself from saying, just in time. "Start to worry," he finishes. 

If Flint notices the pause, he doesn't comment on it; smiles at John instead - brief and tight, eyes squinted against the sun - but there, long enough for John to see it, and perhaps it's that, that little glimpse of him, that allows John to speak, lets him release the breath it half feels like he's been holding all night, the words with it. "When you have a moment," he says - and it sounds silly, sounds ridiculous and stupid and juvenile even to his own ears, especially here, in the face of Captain Flint - but. "You and I need to talk."

Flint's eyes are on the water, gaze fixed careful and quiet on some point far in the distance. "About?" 

"About?" John says, and he's - thrown, even though he shouldn't be, though he should have expected it. He's seen this look on Flint a thousand times before, certainly a handful at least from exactly this vantage point; the arch of his brow, the particular set to his jaw when he stands on the deck of this ship. It's not at all unfamiliar - at least, it shouldn't be. It never has been, until just now. 

There's a chance, though, John thinks; there's a chance, he's almost sure Flint - the other Flint, the one he'd held in his arms - he thinks that man may still be in there somewhere. He'd seen that smile. And Flint hadn't been fucking born at sea. "I think you know what about," he says - gently, as gently as he can manage, and it takes a moment - a long moment, but John holds his breath, holds his position, holds himself where he knows Flint will see him - it takes a moment, but Flint's eyes slide over to meet his. 

He'd seemed all right when John had left him the day before, when Flint had finally suggested he go before their meeting had gone on too long to be excused as a meeting. He'd been calm and clear-eyed when he'd pulled out of John's embrace and perhaps it had taken him a while but there was nothing to indicate John shouldn't have believed him when he'd said he was all right - but perhaps, perhaps John shouldn't have been waiting for an indication. Fuck, he thinks. 

Flint looks at him for a second, then steps back, and John follows; it's unclear where Flint's headed, whether he's agreed and they're going to his cabin or if he's just bolting in a very slow and somewhat understated fashion, but John isn't particularly concerned with his destination - there's no way he's letting Flint walk away from this. 

It appears, though, that Flint isn't going to try, at least not yet; he holds the door to his cabin for John, closes it behind them but doesn't lock it, which John finds - interesting. He goes to step around John, but John stops him - just to see, certainly not because it eases the knot growing tight and solid in his chest - reaches out and catches Flint's hand, and when he doesn't move away, steps closer to catch his lips. Flint doesn't resist - responds, even, his fingers curling around John's own, head tilting so they can settle just that bit closer - and for a moment John loses himself, lets himself get lost, drinking in the warm rush of Flint's breath, the gentle curve of his body. and _oh_ , John thinks, _oh, here you are_ \- 

He leans into Flint firm and purposeful until Flint's other hand comes up to rest on his waist, until he feels Flint's posture settle, his stance widening to take part of John's weight and John wonders fleetingly if he even knows he's doing it, when they'd learned to speak to each other this way and why it seems sometimes so hard to remember - and at others so blissfully easy, and he licks at the soft crease of Flint's lips until he opens, sighs and relaxes and lets John in. 

He could do this for days, years. He could do this for the rest of his life. 

He has to stop, though - doesn't want to, knows what's going to happen, but eventually he has to stop kissing Flint to breathe and instantly Flint's pulling back - gently, slowly, but pulling back nonetheless, leaving John to watch as he goes around to the other side of the wide desk to his chair. He is so quiet here, John can't help thinking - and he knows there's a practical aspect, the ship and the sea beneath them drowning out much of what he's grown too used to being able to hear - but still. He wants Flint to say something. 

"Well?" Flint says, and John knows it's just that he hasn't started the conversation yet himself - but. "What did you want to talk about?" 

It's possible, John thinks; it's possible that Flint is genuinely asking, that he's got his mind on Nassau or the ship or that the lasting impact had been mainly on John, or even on John alone - he takes a step forward to rest one hand and most of his weight on the back of a chair, takes a breath. It's - less calming than he'd hoped. "What happened yesterday," he says, "in your tent," and Flint cocks an eyebrow at him; for a second, just a breath, John's fighting it - the heat in his chest, the welling black around the edges of his vision, and he hates it, he fucking hates it, especially now. "Don't pretend you don't know," he's adding, before he can stop himself, only it comes out honest instead of angry, low and soft and pleading - and there's a chance, he thinks - as soon as he hears it, he thinks there might be a chance. 

To his credit, Flint considers it; John watches it sweep across his face, and when he finally speaks, John gets the sense his words might not be the first thing that he'd wanted to say. "I think you know as well as I, if not better," he says; it's guarded and punctuated with a quick glance, up at John and back to the stack of tightly rolled maps on the desk, and John knows he can't just - push them aside, put himself in their place, force Flint to look at him whether he wants to or not - but he thinks about it. "It was - what you asked for, was it not?" 

Most would have no reason to believe he wasn't sincere; he sounds genuine, his face even and calm, just the right amount of caution around the eyes, but John's watching the hand Flint's laid on his own thigh, watching for the quick twitch of his fingers against cloth. "You know that's not what I mean," he says, and Flint's gaze snaps up to meet his, holds. "You - went somewhere and I'm not sure where, you got on your knees in front of me and you kissed me and you sucked my cock and I'll be honest, that part was amazing. But then you went somewhere and I don't - you wouldn't look at me and you shook like a fucking leaf when I wasn't touching you, and that? That was something I wasn't prepared for." 

"Then we were both caught off guard, and for that I apologize," Flint says, before John can continue, and John frowns. 

"You don't - I told you you don't have to apologize, I just need to know how to handle it, what I should do if it - "

"It's not going to happen again," Flint says, firmly enough the words dry up in John's throat. "It never should have happened in the first place. As far as you're concerned, it never did." 

"What do you mean it never did, of course it - "

"As far as you're concerned," Flint repeats, and there's an edge to it - an edge John finds himself not wanting to test, not just now. There's the anger he's still used to expecting from Flint, but there's something else as well, something unsure - he thinks he may have come upon the rare question Flint doesn't have an answer for. He sits forward in his chair, as though he might get up, and for a second John thinks - Flint opens the water-stained cover of one of his logs though, turning pages rapidly, his attention on it and removed from John entirely. "You should go," he says; "We could make a straight run for Nassau, but I'd like to put in a bit north of there, let the men stretch their legs and give Teach a chance to catch up - " 

"Are you serious?" John says - and there's still a bit of a high to it, interrupting Flint, the way his voice cuts out, the flash of surprise across his face. "This is - this is your plan? Pretend it didn't happen?" Flint's watching him, careful and close, and John wants to - Christ, he doesn't even know, he wants to show Flint he's got reason to be careful, get his hands on Flint's shoulders, around his fucking neck - there's no way, there's no fucking way he doesn't know exactly what he's doing, doesn't know the absurdity of it, doesn't know the uncertainty it's bringing up hot and sour in John's throat. John knows him too damned well to think for an instant he actually believes himself. He knows the quirk at the edge of Flint's mouth, he knows the spray of wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, he knows Flint's heartbeat under his hands - he knows. "And then what? What else should we turn a blind eye toward? What happened in this cabin? The night before that? Has any of this happened, the things that - you know damn well have passed between us, do you intend to ignore them and pretend we're just off to fight your goddamn war? Is this your plan? Is this what you want?" 

"I want you to go," Flint says, soft, and very, very serious - his back straight, his eyes steady and his hands calm and John can't find it in himself to disobey. Not here. It's only a few steps to and then through the door, and John doesn't look back - he doesn't need to; he can feel Flint's gaze on him, harsh and weighted and black. He doesn't need to see it. 

*

It was nothing. 

It was nothing - it should have been nothing. It had certainly started out as nothing - a frumpy little brig, caught sleeping, her sails set carelessly - an easy prize, their stores guaranteed, along with whatever she might be ferrying in her hold. The Guthries might not be paying cash for goods any more, John had argued, but that didn't mean their acquisition had lost its draw entirely; the men had been agreeable, and John hadn't been sure, still isn't sure why Flint had resisted - he'd had a reason, something beyond his insistence that they'd lose the wind, something John suspects might be more related to the fact that he'd been the one to suggest it, to the fact that Flint's been avoiding him for the past two days - but whatever it might have been, John finds he is not and had not been particularly concerned. 

The end result had been the same; he had won that argument. They'd taken the brig, and mostly without incident. It was nothing. 

John is not, however, entirely certain Flint agrees with that assessment. 

He hadn't been certain on deck, watching Flint run his cutlass smooth and calm and swift through the man who'd thought it a good idea to fire a gun toward the Walrus' rail, even though the thing had been done, the brig's colors struck, the manifest safely and neatly in DeGroot's hands; and he isn't certain now, back in the belly of the ship, watching Flint stalk toward him across the gundeck, brushing both empty hammocks and men aside as though they weighed equally nothing. John doubts Flint is wounded; he doesn't seem headed for Howell's quarters, where John had come from, a few steps over his shoulder. He seems headed for John. 

"Is there a problem?" he says, when Flint gets close enough to hear, and he's only half surprised when Flint doesn't answer, at least not in words; his hand fisted in the collar of John's shirt, the muscle tight and twitching high in his cheek seems answer enough. Flint hauls him into a corner, pushes him up between a crowded section of stacked barrels and sacked grain and the hull. John can smell gunpowder on him, hot and sharp and if he closes his eyes for an instant, breathes deep as Flint presses up against him, it's only from the shock of it, it's only that he's surprised Flint's acknowledging him at all, it isn't - anything. 

Though perhaps, he thinks, watching Flint's gaze flick across his face, lingering at the wound on his forehead - perhaps it may be something to Flint. 

"What is it," he says, and if it comes out sounding flat, even a bit disinterested - well. He just - he isn't sure how to take this, Flint's body pressed hot and hard up against his own, Flint's breath warm and quick on his lips - not now. Not after how they'd left things between them - not until he's sure which version of Flint he's facing here. 

"What the fuck was that," Flint says, and John laughs at him - actually laughs at him, can't help himself. He can't be fucking serious. It'll be this Flint, then, John thinks - the one who snaps and bites and shoves at him, and John hates that he's a little disappointed. 

"You're asking me that question?" 

"You disobey my orders," Flint says, like John hadn't said anything at all, and John half wonders if perhaps Flint doesn't realize he had. He's got both hands twisted in the front of John's shirt, pulling the collar tight around his neck and John's back arches, just a little, just from the tug of the fabric. "You contradict me in front of the men, you delay our progress, over a shit prize that wasn't worth the time or the fucking repairs it's cost us."

"We needed that ship," John says, and Flint huffs out a sharp breath. "This crew needs more to sustain them than words, Captain, powerful though yours might be. Her cargo may have been small, but it's worth something. Her capture was worth more. And it cost us nothing." 

"It could've cost everything." He spits it out like it tastes bitter in his mouth, voice cracking on the last word, as his eyes stutter upward toward the blood still drying on John's skin, and John wants to - reach for him, which wouldn't do much since Flint already is pressed against him shoulder to knee - but he can't help feeling like Flint is perhaps also elsewhere. There's a distance about him, an odd sort of remove that tugs hard in John's chest, sucks the air from his lungs, makes him want to just - 

"It cost us nothing," he repeats, and he isn't - sure, Flint could interpret it as a challenge or a comfort and John himself isn't sure which he's going for, even as he says it - isn't sure how Flint takes it, even as he watches Flint lean in, even as Flint's mouth meets his.

In itself the kiss is a challenge, rough and hot and angry, Flint's teeth in his lip and the sharp hoops on the water barrels digging across his back; but there's context there, too, in the drag of Flint's fingers along his jaw, the momentary press of his forehead against John's own. "I told you," he's saying, harsh and fast and panting against John's mouth, "I told you it was a bad idea, I told you not to - " 

"You didn't tell me fucking anything," John says, and Flint growls and bites hard at his lip. He's got a knee between John's thighs and a hand inside his shirt and John is hard in spite of himself - he can't help it, not with Flint like this, against him and around him and trying to consume him. His body responds before he can decide whether or not he wants it to. 

He reaches up to touch Flint's hip, his side, lets his palm rest broad and steady over skin that feels overheated even through Flint's shirt, leans in to kiss Flint back and Flint moans - soft and almost thankful, his body sagging forward against John's and there, John thinks, there it is, that momentary shift in his voice, the hitch in his breath - and fuck, he hadn't even realized he was looking for it, has only just begun to recognize it much less understand it, but - there it is. There he goes. The catch in the glide of his fingers along John's collarbone, the way his eyes drop away - there he goes. 

"Fuck me," John says, only what he means is _stay with me_ \- and he thinks, he hopes - if he's right Flint will hear it in the same way, and he's got to be right, he has to be, he's never been wrong before. "Fuck me, please, I want you to," and Flint's mouth slows on his neck, teeth just grazing skin. Flint wants to - even now his hands are dropping down the front of John's trousers, his fingers curling around John's length, breaths coming fast and short and heavy - every sense John has sings with how badly Flint wants to but he's not fucking _moving_ and John gets an arm over Flint's shoulders and pulls them together, arches forward, lets himself press firm and purposeful against Flint's hand. "Fuck me," he says again, insistent, and Flint snarls, sinks his teeth into John's neck, surges forward.

He's got the waist of John's trousers open almost before John knows he's doing it, hands skimming around to John's hips, shoving the rough cloth down and John's gasping, head thrown back, trying to keep up - Flint's tongue slides wet and hot and demanding up the long column of John's throat and Flint's fingers curl around his cock and "Please," John's gasping, clutching at Flint's neck, his other hand skimming down Flint's chest, "please, please," isn't even sure what specifically he's asking for until Flint's laughing, low and quick and rough, until Flint's leaning in to kiss his mouth, and John wants this - Christ, he wants this, perhaps he'd thought at first the suggestion had just been to catch Flint's attention but - 

"We need - something," Flint says against his lips, voice hitching as John gets a hand inside his breeches, "we need - " 

"In my coat," John says, presses forward to kiss him, quick and deep and firm - Flint is hard in his hand, thick and solid and huge and there's a jar of cream Howell had given him for his head in his coat and John moans just from the thought of it, the promise of having Flint inside him. For a moment, Flint stops touching him - just for a moment, just while he digs in the pockets of John's coat, but all at once it's been too fucking long - and John can't quite see the shape of this, where it's going, and he's clutching at Flint's shoulder, arching against him until Flint lets out a long shuddering breath and comes back to kiss him, palms smoothing again over John's sides, the little jar a cool lump between his fingers and John's skin. "Like this," John says against Flint's cheek, kissing the corner of his mouth, "I want you like this," and Flint's pulling him in and lifting and John has no choice but to open for him, legs spreading around him.

"Alright?" Flint murmurs, and John nods quick against his shoulder; it won't be for long, but for the moment he feels balanced, braced against Flint's body, his good leg hooked around Flint's waist and Flint's palm pressed firm and steady on the back of his other thigh. He trusts Flint won't let him fall. Flint nips at his ear in response, and one of his hands drops away - briefly, though, and this time he's leaning in to kiss John as he does it, until he's touching him again. His fingers are slick now where they rest low on John's hip, and John closes his eyes, mouthing across Flint's shoulder, just to see how far Flint will let him go, just to distract himself - and fuck, he's dizzy with how badly he wants this, wants Flint, he's just never - Flint's hands are gentle on him, though, his movements slow as he strokes down between John's legs, his lips resting warm against John's jaw until John turns, lets Flint kiss him properly. 

"Come on," he whispers into Flint's mouth, "come on, we don't have much time - " and he wishes, fuck, he wishes they were somewhere else, anywhere other than barely hidden on the fucking gundeck, the men starting to find their way back to their berths - he wishes they could take their time with this, and maybe that should surprise him, given how they've been keeping to opposite ends of the ship for the past few days, but. Flint, at least, seems to agree; he kisses John again, deeper this time, his touch turning purposeful, and then John's arching and gasping and moaning soft against his mouth, nails raking across Flint's shoulders as Flint presses two fingers into him, firm and steady and slow. 

"Fuck," John's gasping, "oh, fuck," and Flint's movements falter - "No, Jesus, no, don't stop, don't fucking stop," and Flint works his hand deeper, fingers spreading, and John kisses him to shut himself up, to stop the noises that threaten to tear their way out of his throat - kisses him because he can't bear to not be kissing him, can't stand even that bit of separation, not now. Flint is breathing rough and unsteady, the muscles in his back tense and straining but his hands are gentle, big and warm and solid on John's skin, where he's working his fingers into him. He's hard against the back of John's thigh, hips nudging up against the weight of John's body, and John wants him closer, wants more, he wants - he bites his lip, twists down against Flint until he gets the idea, until Flint's growling low in his throat, shoving John back hard against the barrels. 

There's another moment where Flint's hands pull away, and John can't help a whimper at the loss of him - but then he's being lifted, Flint's arm hooking under his knee, the blunt head of Flint's cock slipping over his entrance. "Please," he says - whines, almost, and fuck, he hates how he sounds, needy and hungry and low, but - "oh, fuck, please," and Flint's whispering _yes_ into his mouth, kissing him long and slow and achingly soft as he pulls John closer, slides into him. 

It's - it's beyond words, and for a moment John gets caught up in that, in his sheer inability to even - he can feel himself stretching around Flint, opening for him and it hurts, but in the way he's only come to understand hurt recently, the way that claws bright and red and pleasing in his chest - John winds his arms around Flint's shoulders, his cheek against Flint's short hair, struggling for breath. Flint feels huge inside him, around him, his mouth wet and hot against the side of John's throat, trailing kisses down John's shoulder as his cock slips deeper, and John can't think, doesn't think, needs to - 

"Look at me," he says, his hands skimming up Flint's back, "look at me," and Flint does - lifts his head from John's shoulder to meet his eyes as he pulls John closer, rocking into him, settling John firmly against the curve of his hips. "Fuck," John whispers - his hands are on Flint's face, thumbs stroking through his rough beard, over the corner of Flint's mouth as it quirks up in a tiny smile, his eyes wide and steady and open - "fuck, look at you," and Flint's smile wavers, but holds. He pulls back, but just a bit - just enough he can thrust into John again, harder, holds himself there, and John's breath catches in his throat. "God," he chokes out, "fuck, Captain, please," and this time he doesn't miss it, this time Flint says it to his face instead of into his skin - this time Flint holds his gaze and says, _James_.

Of course, John thinks - fuck, of course. "James," he whispers, leaning into him, pressing close, his forehead against Flint's and Flint's breath quick and rough across his lips. "Oh, James," and Flint lets John kiss him, deep and slow and wet - lets John pull him into it, opening to John's mouth - and John doesn't want to break it but he has to, has to catch his breath, Flint's hands on him and Flint's cock in him and Flint's tongue against his suddenly too much to bear. Flint moans, soft and quick, his head dropping to John's shoulder before John can stop him, and John curls a hand around the back of his neck, gasping - Flint's thrusting sharp and fast and shallow against him, his mouth open around the curve of John's collar, one hand shoved between them to wrap around John's own cock. It's not going to take long - not for either of them, John's close just from Flint's cock in him, Flint's hand wrapped around him; it's too much, too much of him all at once and John can't think, can't stop himself, he just needs - 

"Look at me," he says again, but this time Flint bites him instead - and some tiny sliver of his mind registers that, the denial, but Flint's pulling almost all the way out of him, slamming back hard and fast and final and John's coming, shocked, one hand jammed into his mouth to stop himself from crying out, feeling himself clench around Flint's thick cock as Flint shudders, spilling hot inside of him. 

John holds tight to him, both arms and his good leg wrapped around Flint, keeping him there - and it works, Flint's back heaving under his hands, Flint's head tucked into the curve of his shoulder, his breath fast and warm and sharp against the hollow of John's throat - for a few seconds, it works. John tries - he feels the shift in Flint's posture, feels him starting to move and he tries to hold on when Flint slips out of him, pulls away - but there's an ache starting up in his hips and he has no choice but to let him go, has to brace himself as Flint sets him down, one hand reaching for the smooth arch of the hull to his side. "Wait," he says - the air is cool against him where Flint had been so hot and close and it feels wrong, feels strange for him to move away - "wait, will you - " 

Flint looks up, meets John's eyes; he's tucking himself back into his breeches, quick and businesslike, wiping John's come off his hand against his thigh. "We need to see to the cargo," he says, and on one hand that might be the hardest John's ever come in his life, but on the other - is he fucking serious? 

"What do you," he says, and stops; the men are finding their way closer, low murmur of their voices growing louder, and nobody's made it this far down yet but they will soon. It wouldn't do for them to catch him and Flint in a full-blown argument, he knows that, but. "What the fuck do you mean, we need to see to the cargo? Just like that? What the fuck was that?" 

It's the same weathered face he'd just been touching, the same green eyes that had burned into his, but somehow it's also not; Flint is also somehow gone, that cold calm overlay replacing him, shutting him away, shutting John out. "That was a mistake," he says, "an error in judgement," and John thinks he might actually have to kill him. How dare he, John thinks, hot and wild - and he shouldn't, he knows it's more complicated than that, but he can't help himself, can't stop himself - how fucking dare he, after that. 

"And this coming from you," he says - and it's perhaps more difficult than he's expecting it to be, trying to get his breeches back up and staying angry at the same time, but somehow he manages - "You, who told me you didn't have time for mistakes, for errors in judgement. Perhaps you'd also like to tell me which side of your fucking mouth speaks the truth." 

Flint doesn't answer - just looks at him, steady and collected, and John wants to shake him, wants to fucking scream, wants to force the answers out of him - but he forces a breath instead, settles for shouldering up close to Flint, ignoring the howling ache as he puts weight back on his leg. Flint holds himself still as John gets near, doesn't reach for him, doesn't pull away; his face tightens, though, mouth twisting sharp and uncontrolled for just a second, just long enough for John to catch it. 

"I see you," John whispers, and he's not sure - he's not sure what he's going to say until he's saying it, until he hears the words come out, but as soon as they do he knows he's also never been more sure of anything in his life. "I see you. You can run away if you want, you can hide from this, pretend it's not fucking happening if you have to, but you cannot hide from me. Not any more. I've seen you, James. I know you're in there, and I'm not going to forget you." 

For a long moment, Flint is entirely, perfectly still, and John matches him; he doesn't want to push Flint any farther - whichever side of this they fall towards just now will be Flint's decision - but John isn't going to back down, either. He holds Flint's eyes for a breath, two, and for a second he thinks, maybe, maybe - but eventually Flint breaks from John's gaze, turns to go, and this time, John lets him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title is from [block city](https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/block-city) by robert louis stevenson (pls forgive me)
> 
> [xJuniperx](http://archiveofourown.org/users/xJuniperx/pseuds/xJuniperx) alpha'd and beta'd and coaxed this thing into being and declared herself its stepmom and u know what that's honestly pretty fitting


End file.
